


Pain

by Saoirse_Laochra



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Language, Murphy's Escape from the grounders, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 23:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11451057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saoirse_Laochra/pseuds/Saoirse_Laochra
Summary: In the distance he can hear voices –not sure if it’s the Hundred or the Grounders, and not entirely sure he cares; either one will kill him, and that’s all he’s really looking for anyways.Murphy's somewhat-muddled thoughts as he tries to get back to the Drop Ship.Gratuitous language -it's Murphy, and he's been tortured, after all.





	Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure how exactly it works, but just wanted to let folks know... I'll take ideas, requests, whatever. Since my hard drive -with writing dating back almost ten years -got fried a few months ago, my plot bunnies have deserted me in favor of greener fields. I'll write most anything. Just looking for ideas to sort of get me back in the swing of things, I guess.

It fucking _hurts_.

Murphy isn’t sure he’s capable of a rational thought beyond that. Lying in the woods – _crawling, keep crawling, don’t stop, John, keep fucking moving_ –every inch of his body is screaming in pain, as he drags his cut and broken flesh over dirt, branches, rocks, and God knows what else.

He knows there’s no point in keeping quiet; shit, the blood trail he’s leaving is obvious enough that fucking _Goggle bo_ y could follow it. At night. Blindfolded. But he still bites his lips, keeping the screams that are burning to escape firmly locked down.

Shit, he doesn’t even know where he’s fucking going. He can’t go back to the drop ship. Home is bad. But he’s gotta go _somewhere_.

 _Anywhere but back_.

Fuck it. Bellamy will probably kill him; if he doesn’t, Clarke or Finn probably will. At least it’ll be quick though, right?

_They won’t rip his fingernails off. They won’t slice off strips of flesh, and hang it from his cage. Won’t burn him with hot metal. Stick his cage over the open fire, and laugh as he desperately tries to climb the bars, slick with sweat and blood, weak from exhaustion and pain, falling again and again._

One of those bastards had fucking _complimented_ him. Said how _impressive_ it was that he kept trying to climb.

Not impressive enough to move the cage, apparently. He’d spent a fucking _hour_ over that fucking _fire_.

Bellamy wouldn’t do that to him, right?

_He wouldn’t._

Would he?

He bit back a yelp as he tore his hand on a jagged rock, jutting out of the ground. Where the fuck did that come from? Bellamy wouldn’t do that to him. Kill him, probably, but he’d shoot him. Make it quick.

Shit, that sounds fucking _amazing_. He’s in more pain than he ever thought possible. Sure, it’d hurt when the hundred beat the shit out of him, and tried to hang him. It’d hurt when the guards shock-lashed them in the Sky Box –shit, did _that_ fucking hurt, he should know, he was on the receiving end of that particular _reeducation_ _method_ at least once or twice a week –but that was fucking _nothing_ compared to this.

He just wants to stop, and lay down. But he can’t; he knows he’ll never get back up –maybe he won’t even fucking _wake_ _up_ , and wouldn’t that be fucking _beautiful_?

Unless the Grounder catch up to him again.

But he’s so fucking _tired_. Every time he’d start to fall asleep, they’d pour water over him. Stick a hot knife against his foot. Nowhere to get away from it in his little cage.

Very effective at waking him up. He’s not even sure what fuckin’ day it is, or how long they had him; it seemed like months. Probably wasn’t more than a few days; he’d seen the sun rise three or four times in the camp? _Was it three, or was it four? Not that difficult, right? Three or four, John?_

He can’t fucking _remember_ , and it doesn’t really fucking _matter, does it_? They could’ve tortured him for a _year_ , and it wouldn’t have fucking changed anything. He’d tried to hold out –why, he wasn’t sure, not like the Hundred had betrayed him, sent him to his death –or torture, as it turned out, although they didn’t know that, nobody did –but eventually he’d fucking cracked like an egg. Told them everything.

Shit, he’s pretty sure he told them about when he set the guard’s dorm on fire; anything to make it fucking stop for a while.

It hadn’t, though. If anything, him cracking had made it worse. They started sneering, calling him a traitor, and a coward.

He doesn’t fucking care. He bought himself a few hours reprieve by metaphorically spilling his guts –a gesture that kept them from _literally_ spilling his guts for him.

They still hadn’t let him fucking sleep. But they’d given him some shitty brown water, and a crusty roll.

Then they’d started again. Stringing him upside down, and playing baseball with his ribs –they laughed as they called him a pen atta or some shit. Drawing fucking _designs_ on his back like he was some kind of fucking _connect-the-dots_ book.

 _Bellamy, Clarke, and Co. wouldn’t do that to him_. They’d just kill him. _Right_? A quick bullet, and it’d all be over. He could sleep _. Sleep for-fucking-ever_.

He’s so fucking tired, but he’s gotta keep moving. Towards the drop ship. Towards camp. Doesn’t matter what they do to him –it’ll be a damn sight better than what the Grounder will do to him if they catch him.

He holds in another scream as his sprained – _only sprained, please, not broken, fuck, not broken, but sprained_ –catches on a tree root, sending a wave of pain through him, strong enough to paralyze him for a moment.

Jesus, Mary and fucking Joseph. Fuck. Fuck.

He forces himself to move again; he pointedly doesn’t look at or feel that ankle. It doesn’t matter if it’s sprained –not broken, broken is bad –or not, he’s gotta keep moving.

He’s already passed the bridge. That means he’s gotta be getting close.  Shit, maybe he’d fucking ask Bellamy to put a bullet in him. There’s no way this shattered fucking mess can be fixed, right? Not with Princess as the closest thing they got to a fucking doctor. They’ll probably have to amputate… something. What would they amputate? Maybe his ankle.

Would he be able to walk? Even if they didn’t take his ankle? He’d read somewhere that the bottoms of people’s feet were tough; they could stand most anything. How many times could you burn the flesh off of them and still have them work?

Doesn’t matter. Problem for another day – _if he has another day after this one_.

Why the fuck is he stopped? _Don’t fucking stop, John, keep fucking moving, you moron!_

But he can’t; he’s fucking done. In the distance he can hear voices –not sure if it’s the Hundred or the Grounders, and not entirely sure he cares.

Either one will kill him, and that’s all he’s really looking for anyways.


End file.
